


Gracious In Defeat

by yodasyoyo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awesome Sheriff Stilinski, Bottom Derek, Derek Takes Care Of Stiles, Derek Wears Plaid, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Living Together, M/M, Post 5B, Stiles Leaves Beacon Hills, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-06-08 04:28:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6839074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yodasyoyo/pseuds/yodasyoyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles needs to get away from Beacon Hills after the end of his senior year. Derek offers to let him stay with him in São Paulo, and they finally act on the tension that has always simmered between them. </p><p>The thing is, when it's time to go home- Stiles doesn't want to leave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notenoughgatorade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notenoughgatorade/gifts).



> Written for the TW Glompfest prompt:  
> I want something based on Marty's reviews that Derek has moved to São Paulo and after this season Stiles finally buys a ticket and comes down to spend time with him, and they get together, maybe they decide to travel around a little, but in the end they settle, either in Brazil or somewhere else but definitely not BH
> 
> For those who are interested: Marty's excellent review can be found [here](http://prettiestcaptain.tumblr.com/post/140853861349/teen-wolf-s5-ep20-a-summary)
> 
> You'll notice if you look that the pictures used of Hoechlin are taken from Open Gate where he wears plaid. My mind kind of fixated on it a bit.
> 
>  
> 
> Many thanks to adeepeningdig who beta'd this for me and offered some really constructive insights that made this fic 1000% better than it was, and Mountain_ash, who took a look at the first draft, helped me wrangle some of the plot points and allowed me to rant at her about it! Any remaining mistakes you spot are all my own.
> 
> This fic takes places after Stiles' senior year finishes. So not directly at the end of 5B.

  _And I'll use you as a focal point_

_So I don't lose sight of what I want_

_And I've moved further than I thought I could_

_But I missed you more than I thought I would..._

_...I found love where it wasn't supposed to be_

_Right in front of me_

**Amber Run, I Found**

 

It’s one in the morning and Stiles is still awake, fiddling absently with his cell phone. He has a lot of complicated relationships in his life at the moment, but none more so than his relationship with sleep. Nightmares or insomnia, that’s the choice that stares him in the face every night, and really, it’s no choice at all. Every sound, from the wind in the trees, to a car passing by on the street, has him sitting up in bed awake and alert, expecting the worst. Then, when he _does_ finally manage to drift off, his own subconscious is waiting to attack him in cruel and inventive ways.

When he looks in the mirror, he barely recognizes the person staring back at him. It’s little things. A callous twist to his mouth. The grim expression in his eyes. The frown marks that seem to permanently crease his brow. The events of the last few months have worn him down until he feels as thin as paper. He barely knows himself anymore. He’s not a real person. He just exists, researches, survives; haunts the remnants of his own life, trying to convince people that the Stiles they think they know is still there. Maybe, if he can make them believe it, it will be true.

He can’t keep going on like this. How many more sacrifices can he make? His friendships, his grades, his future, everything offered up in an attempt to try and keep the people he loves safe. Sure, he graduated high school but he never bothered applying to any colleges. What would be the point? He can’t go anywhere, he’s been conscripted. He's a soldier in a war that never seems to end.

He spends his nights poring over books for hours, mining the darkest recesses of the internet; all in the hope that if he can just research _enough,_ just keep _one_ step ahead of whatever the latest supernatural shitstorm is, he’ll be able to keep everyone safe. He _has_ to keep everyone safe.

Now, he sits at his desk and fidgets listlessly with his phone, thumbing through his contacts. He scrolls endlessly past the list of names, again and again and again. His gaze keeps snagging on the same name, and every time he sees it pass something twists in his gut.

Stiles doesn’t feel safe anymore. That's the problem, well, part of it. He can admit that to himself now.

He hasn't _been_ safe. Not really. Not since that first night when he talked Scott into going to the woods to find half a dead body and ended up with a werewolf for a best friend.

The name appears on his screen again and he stops scrolling, lets his thumb hover over it, wills himself to text, to call, to do  _something._

The screen goes dark as he looks at it.

The _thing_ is...

He _used_ to feel safe, or if not safe, then not _unsafe._ Even with all the shit that went down that first year, with Peter and Gerard and the Kanima and the Alpha pack. He'd faced it all with a kind of brash, reckless courage, and hadn’t questioned it, because no matter how bleak the situation looked, _someone_ always turned up to save him. _Someone_ always had his back.

Idly, he taps the phone and the screen flares to life. The name sits there, taunting him. He selects the message option. Stares at the phone, at the name and the blank space that waits for him to fill it with all the things he doesn’t know how to say.

How many times has he almost texted him?

How many times has he sat here, just like this, wanting to beg him to come back?

He's resisted so far. Tried to live without him, to make the best of it.

He’s tried to get used to living with the guilt and the fear. It's not getting any easier though. There's no relief, only a growing sense of panic. He worries that if he doesn't leave soon, if he doesn't walk away from the hellmouth that Beacon Hills has become, then the town will open up and swallow him whole.

He dreams about it sometimes. The ground crumbling away beneath him, the twisted roots of the Nemeton dragging him under, pulling him down, down, down into darkness. His mouth fills with earth even as his screams die in his throat. He wakes up every night gasping for breath, pillow damp with tears.

He wants more than this.

He wants simple, impossible things.

To sleep, and not be afraid of what his dreams will be.

To know that his family and friends are not in danger.

To go to college.

To feel safe again. Safe in his home and in his own skin.

 _Safe._ The more he thinks on it, the more he realizes that there's only one person who's ever made him feel _that_ in recent years.

If someone had told him a year ago that _Derek Hale_ would be-

That he would need _Derek_ , to feel-

He would have _laughed_. Laughed himself stupid.

Now all he knows is that nothing’s been the same since Derek left. Nothing.

 **Come back.** He taps out the words without thinking.

His thumb hovers over the send button. He feels sick to his stomach. Even if Derek _did_ return, there's nothing about this request that isn't selfish. Derek got away. After everything he’s lost, Derek finally escaped Beacon Hills. It's unfair to ask him to come back. Stiles can't do that to him, can't be the person who makes him return to this hell hole.

He deletes the message. Stares at his phone, and the screen darkens again.

It’s an impossible situation, but on some level he knows he can’t carry on like this. He needs a break, he needs to breathe, to get a decent night’s sleep. He needs space to just _be._

His senior year started with the Dread Doctors and the whole mess with Theo and Donovan, not to mention his disintegrating relationship with Scott. It didn’t let up after that. It never lets up any more and now a bone deep weariness has set in, a desire to be anywhere, _anywhere,_ except Beacon Hills.

That’s not an option though. His Dad, Scott and the pack chain him here. He needs to know they’re safe. He can’t let them down, can’t just up and leave; and even if he could, where would he go? College?

College.

He wants to laugh at the thought of it. How is he supposed to focus on a studying? How is he supposed to think about his future? People have _died_ , the world is imploding around him. The way things have been, he’s lucky he and his friends _survived_ their senior year at all. Trying to think about a future beyond that, college, work… it’s impossible.

He taps the screen of his phone again and types out another message.

**I need to see you**

He stares at it. Considers it. Deletes it. Tries again.

**Where are you?**

Delete.

**I miss you.**

Ack. No. Delete. Delete. Delete.

In the end, he calls. He doesn't mean to. It's just a slip of the thumb. Maybe it'll be easier to just say it, he thinks, easier to let his mouth take over and spew the words before his brain can second guess itself.

“Hello? Stiles?” Derek picks up almost immediately. His voice is sleep-coarse and irritable. It’s 1.30AM in Beacon Hills. God knows where Derek is or what timezone he’s in. “Stiles, do you know what the damn time is here?” He sounds so irritated. So _real._ It’s a relief.

“I-” he gets up and paces his bedroom. He doesn’t know where to begin, so he falls back on what’s familiar. “How would _I_ know the time? I don’t even know where you are! Leave a forwarding address next time, jackass!”

Derek huffs in frustration, “For God’s sake, Stiles! What do you need?”

Stiles scrubs a shaking hand across his face. _You, apparently,_ he thinks.

 _“_ I couldn't sleep.” It’s more honest than he meant to be.

There's a long pause, “Oh.” He hears bedsheets rustle as Derek resettles himself. “Well, what am I supposed to do about that?”

“I don't know Derek, read me a bedtime story? Sing me a lullaby?” It's supposed to sound sarcastic, he _means_ it to be sarcastic, but his voice cracks over the words and there's a burning lump in his throat.

“Stiles-”

“Distract me.” _Make me feel safe,_ he thinks. There's a long pause, tears leak silently down his cheeks. He swipes them away. “I- uh- you know what? Nevermi-”

“I'm working on a construction site at the moment,” Derek says apropos of nothing. Stiles stills.

“Construction?” He sits down abruptly on the edge of his bed.

“Yeah, I used to work in construction for a while when Laura and I were in New York. It was easy to get back into it. Besides, nobody asks too many questions. It’s a good way of earning money while you're on the move.”

“What are you building?”

“Housing development in São Paulo.” Derek yawns.

“Brazil...” Stiles mumbles to himself.

“Yeah, for now.”

There's a long pause, “Is it- do you- like it?”

“It's okay. It keeps me busy, keeps me active. Doesn't let me think too much. I feel-” he hesitates.

“You feel?”

“I feel tired, at the end of the day. It's good.”

Stiles sinks back on to his bed, head resting against his pillow, “It sounds good.” He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. As he exhales his shoulders go slack and the knot of tension coiled tight in his chest loosens slightly.

“What about you?” Derek asks.

“I-” he starts, but trails off. Derek says nothing, just waits patiently. “I need a vacation.”

“Where would you go?”

“Somewhere. Anywhere. I just need to be away from _here,_ you know?”

Derek’s silent for a long moment, “I mean, you could- here. If you want. For a bit.”

“Really?” Stiles asks, amused. “You think you could put up with me?”

Derek snorts. “I’d manage. Besides, I'm serious, I’ve got an apartment, you could- we’d make it work. I could show you São Paulo.”

Stiles sinks, impossibly, further into his bed, boneless and relieved. “Yeah?” he says. “Yeah, that sounds fun. I’d like that.”

He imagines what it would be like for a moment, getting on a plane and stepping off somewhere else. Leaving all of this behind him. Seeing _Derek._

It’s a nice dream.

 

-

 

It’s not _actually_ an option. He _knows_ that. It’s just another thing he wants but will never get to have; like the chance to have more time with his Mom (as she was, not as she became), or the opportunity to study criminal law at Stanford. In some other universe, maybe there’s a Stiles who gets those things, who’s sitting at a bar somewhere in São Paulo, talking to Derek about his future at college. Maybe that Stiles’ Mom never got her brain eaten away by some bastard disease, and she was at his high school graduation, standing next to his Dad, smiling and proud.

He _hates_ that Stiles a little bit. That Stiles has everything.

 

-

 

Three weeks later and Stiles is sitting in his bedroom again, researching the latest vague supernatural threat that’s looming over them all; trying to piece together the clues to make it form some kind of coherent picture.

He’s nursing multiple fading bruises and a nearly-healed stab wound from an incident two weeks ago. Some rogue hunters rolled into town and decided to try their luck against Scott and the rest of the pack. The knife barely missed a couple of essential internal organs, and it still aches if he sits upright at his desk for too long.

He hears his dad come in from his late shift, listens to the thump of his footsteps as they climb the stairs and pause outside his bedroom door.

“Yo, Dad.”

The door opens and Stiles looks up to see his Dad hovering in the doorway, a familiar look of concern across his face.

“You thinking about going to bed sometime soon, son?”

Stiles shrugs, “Yeah, soon. I’m just gonna finish up.” He turns back to his laptop.

It’s a lie and they both know it. Stiles will stay up researching until dawn creeps up on him; kept from his bed by a toxic combination of insomnia and nightmares. Normally his dad just sighs and continues on to his own room. Tonight he lingers, watchful and waiting. Out of the corner of his eye Stiles can see his dad’s hands, fingers clenching into fists and then relaxing again; he’s working himself up to something.

“Are you alright?” Stiles asks, still staring at the laptop screen.

His Dad sighs, “How’s that scar?”

Stiles' hand reaches for it automatically, “Fine.”

It is fine. It’s healing. Soon it will be just another little mark. Another footnote in the story of how he's managed to survive so long in Beacon Hills.

“That was a close call though.” His dad swallows and moves into the room, taking a seat on Stiles' bed.

“It’s fine.” Stiles repeats, turning in his chair to watch his dad. "I'm fine. Honestly."

His Dad stares at him, lips pursed. “God, I hate this.” 

“What?”

“This. You. Being here. Getting stabbed." He stands abruptly, " _Jesus,_ Stiles, you should be in college. You should be getting out of here. Not-” he gestures expansively, trailing off.

Stiles looks down at his hands. “It’s just the way things are,” he says, eventually. “It’s fine. I’m _fine_.” 

“You’re not fine. Nothing about this is _fine_. You were stabbed. Melissa McCall said that knife was this close to hitting your liver.”

“But it didn’t-”

“It _could_ have, how many more near misses before your luck runs out?”

Stiles looks away. There’s no point in having this argument with his Dad again.

“It’s more than that son,” his dad continues eventually. “You’re different now. Distant. Detached. In the last year I feel like I hardly know you any more.”

Stiles scrubs a hand across his face. He doesn’t know what to say. Honestly, for the last year it's felt like someone has slowly turned the color saturation down on his life. Now he only sees things in murky shades of grey. He looks at the people in his life, people he _knows_ he loves, and just feels tired and depleted. Like every sense, every emotion, has been deadened somehow. Maybe it’s a reaction to living in a constant state of fear and anxiety. He hopes it's that, because the alternative is that he's broken inside, fundamentally damaged beyond repair.

“I just need a vacation,” he says lightly.

His dad’s head snaps up. He looks hopeful, “Hey kid, if you want to go somewhere then _go._ I’ll help cover the cost.”

Stiles swallows, “You know I can’t do that dad.”

“WHY NOT?” his dad slams his hand down on Stiles' bedside cabinet angrily and Stiles flinches. “Look at what you’ve been through in the last few years. Look at what you’ve given up. You’re imploding Stiles. I’m watching it happen. I’m watching myself lose you as slowly and surely as I lost your mo-” he stops himself, stricken.

Stiles shuts his eyes and wills himself not to cry.

Silence lays heavily between them.

There's a ragged inhale of breath. “Sorry,” his dad says coming to stand next to him. He places a hand on Stiles' shoulder. “I’m sorry, son.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Stiles mumbles. “It’s not like this is what either of us pictured for me.”

“No, it isn't.” His Dad lifts his hand reluctantly and turns to leave, his shoulders slumped in defeat. In that moment, Stiles can hardly stand it.

“Derek invited me to stay with him in São Paulo.” He doesn’t know why he says it. The words just tumble out without his permission.

His Dad stops, then turns slowly to look at him. “Derek _Hale?”_

Stiles nods.

“I didn’t realize you guys were close.”

“We- uh. We get on okay.”

"What's in São Paulo?  Is there some kind of apocalypse? Another evil tree?"

"Nemeton, and no," Stiles shakes his head. "As far as I know he's just working there, in construction."

“Oh," his dad looks thoughtful, "I mean, do you _want_ to go visit him?”

“I-”   _Yes,_ he thinks.  _Truthfully, sometimes I think_ _I never felt more like myself than when Derek was here. I_ need _to feel like myself again._ “Maybe.”

His Dad tilts his head to one side. “Because if you want to do that, we could make it happen.”

“What about all this-” Stiles gestures to the laptop, to the slumping piles of grimoires that are piled up by his desk. “The pack needs me to research.”

His dad’s mouth tightens in a frown, “They’ll work it out, and anyway, they’re not my biggest concern right now son. You are, and you need a break.”

Stiles runs a hand through his hair. The burden of all his responsibilities, the grief, the pain of the last few years, it all weighs heavily on him. He can’t leave. If something happens to his dad while he’s gone... If something happens to Scott or any of the pack, how will he live with himself? He can't  _think_ about walking away from Beacon Hills at the moment.

Except-

It’s relentless. It’s _always_ going to be like this. There's never going to be a good time for him to leave, even for a little while. This town won’t stop until it’s picked his carcass clean and sucked the marrow from his bones.

“Okay.” He doesn’t mean to say it, but when he sees the look of pure relief that spreads across his dad’s face, he knows he can't take it back.

He’s going to Brazil.

 

-

 

It takes a few days to get everything arranged, but before he knows it he’s standing at the airport with his dad ready to get on a plane. He can hardly believe it.

“Take care, son.” His dad steps forward, arms outstretched.

Stiles closes the gap and pulls him in, clings to him. Buries his face in his Dad's shoulder and breathes him in, trying to memorize every detail of this moment.

“I’ll miss you,” he mumbles.

His dad chuckles, “You say that now. You think two weeks will be enough?”

“It will be enough,” Stiles says, drawing back. “It’s Derek, any longer than two weeks and we’ll probably kil- be at each other’s throats.”

His dad huffs out a laugh and Stiles swallows, hard.

It's not a big deal.

It's two weeks. Two weeks.

Two weeks to sleep a little easier and feel a little safer.

Two weeks to recover.

It’ll be enough, it has to be.

 

-

 

Stiles fidgets the entire flight. He toys with the string of his hoodie, taps his fingers against the armrest of his seat. He’s a ball of constant restless motion that can’t be contained. His neighbor glares murderously at him. Stiles can’t help it though. It’s strange and unsettling to be seated here on a plane, speeding away from Beacon Hills. Stranger still to think that he’s about to see _Derek_ , that he’ll be living with him for a whole week.

He’s been so focused on just _getting away,_ that he hasn’t thought about what it will be like to finally see Derek. Now, he can’t think about anything else. His stomach swoops dangerously and his palms are clammy with sweat. He’s anxious, but it’s a different kind of anxiety than the one that keeps him awake at night. _It’s fine,_ he tells himself, _it’s not even like you’ll spend that much time with him. He’ll probably be at work during the day._

He can’t tell if he’s relieved or upset by the thought.

When Stiles walks through the arrivals gate, he zeros in on Derek immediately, despite the crowds of other people. He can't help it. He's always seen Derek, always noticed him, always wanted his attention. Derek’s an itch under his skin that he’s never quite been able to scratch; a puzzle with several key pieces missing, and Stiles has never been able to resist solving a puzzle. That’s what he’s been telling himself, that’s how he’s justified the way Derek haunts his thoughts.

Sometimes, when he sat there at night staring obsessively at Derek’s number, willing himself to call, he told himself it was just because he missed his _friend._

Now, as he catches Derek’s eye across the airport, he knows he’s been lying to himself. He licks his lips nervously as he walks toward him, heart hammering furiously in his chest.

Derek looks different, even at a distance. It's nothing Stiles can pin point immediately, but as he moves closer he notices small changes. Derek's hair has no product in it, it's a little longer, soft and tousled. The way he holds himself is different too, less rigid. His arms hang at his sides, loose and relaxed, not folded tight across his chest. He looks... younger, although that might have something to do with the-

“Plaid!” Stiles exclaims, not sure what to do with this unexpected turn of events. His brain short circuits and grinds to a halt. His bags drop to the floor.

Derek lifts one eyebrow as he meets Stiles' eyes, his lips twist, wry and mocking.

 _He's wearing a plaid shirt._ It stretches tight across his broad chest, sleeves rolled up to reveal the corded muscle of his forearms. Stiles blinks owlishly and tries not to stare. Derek claps a hand on his shoulder and squeezes, his grip warm and firm through the thin fabric of Stiles’ hoodie.

“Plaid?” Stiles repeats, his brain still trying to reboot.

“Stiles.”

“Plaid. Seriously? Is this a glitch in the Matrix, Derek? Because-” 

“Am I going to regret inviting you here?”

“No. But-” Stiles gestures at him helplessly, “plaid...”

Derek reaches down and grabs Stiles' bags. He hoists them effortlessly over his shoulder. Then he grabs both Stiles’ shoulders and squeezes tight again. He fixes him with a searching gaze. “You look like shit,” he announces. Stiles scowls, but before he can retort, Derek’s released him. “Come on,” he says, nodding towards the exit. “Let's go.” He turns and strides off through the crowds.

Stiles stares after him for a moment. “Fucking _plaid_ ,” he mutters, before scurrying after him.

 

-

 

Derek's renting an apartment above a boteco in Bela Vista. Stiles follows him up a set of rickety wooden stairs to a paint-chipped door, which Derek unlocks. The space is small- bijou, Stiles' mom would have called it. He steps into a room that doubles as a kitchen and living room. It has glass doors that lead onto a little balcony which overlooks the street below.

Derek disappears into another room with Stiles' bags, and Stiles glances about himself curiously. Whatever else has changed, Derek’s taste in home furnishings is as spartan as ever. The walls are bare. A worn maroon couch sits centrally in the main living space. There’s a rough hewn coffee table in front of it. They're positioned so that when seated on the couch, you can look out through the glass doors and see the rooftops of the buildings opposite, and above that, the sky. Pale gauzy curtains hang in the windows, fluttering restlessly in the breeze. _Open windows,_ Stiles thinks. To his left is a tiny kitchen which contains a small oven, a fridge and a few cupboards. The kitchen counter is worn, but clean. There are two bar stools tucked under it and an old white kettle sits on top.

“Aren’t you going to give me the grand tour?” Stiles calls.

Derek sticks his head round the door and casts Stiles a dry look. “Sure,” he says. “You can sit there,” he gestures at the couch. “Cook and eat back there,” he points to the kitchen. “And you sleep in here,” he jerks his thumb at the room behind him. Stiles wanders over to take a look. The bedroom is small, barely enough space for the double bed and chest of drawers it contains. There's another door off to one side.

“What about that?” Stiles says, nodding at it.

“Bathroom,” Derek leans across and tugs the door handle. The door swings open. “You need me to explain what _that’s_ for?”

Stiles bites down on a smile. “Asshole.”

“Close enough.” Derek smirks lazily at him, and Stiles grins, properly this time. It’s the first time he can remember smiling in weeks, months maybe. That's when he notices that Derek’s left his bags on the bed. The only bed. There is no other bedroom.

“If I'm in here, then where are you going to sleep?” he asks looking about with a frown.

“The couch.” Derek moves to leave and Stiles shuffles uncertainly on the spot before deciding to back out of the tiny space.

“You can't- I can sleep on the couch,” he insists. It’s not like he needs a comfortable bed. It’s not like he sleeps properly now anyway, not that Derek needs to know that.

Derek strides past him to the fridge. He pulls out a bottle of beer and flicks the lid off with a casual claw. “You want it?” he asks, offering it to Stiles.

Stiles reaches for it wordlessly, and takes a long swallow. He sinks down into the couch and cradles the bottle gently between his hands, the glass cool against his skin.

“I'll take the couch,” Derek repeats, sitting next to him a moment later and taking a slug of his own beer.

“But-”

Derek knocks his knee against Stiles’, “Stop being annoying.”

Stiles' head falls back against the couch and he takes another slow sip. “I just- I don't want to be in the way.”

Derek shrugs. “You're not,” he says, looking away. “You haven’t been in the way for a long time.”

 

-

 

Derek takes him out for dinner later that evening, at a cosy family run restaurant nestled in a side street. They take a seat and the waitress, a middle aged woman with dark, springy curls, fusses over Derek fondly.

“You must be Stiles.” She says in heavily accented English.

“Yeah,” he glances at her, “How did you-?”

“Derek told me you were coming. It’s so nice to meet you at last.”

“At last?” Stiles' eyebrows disappear into his hairline. He glances to Derek who is studiously examining the beermat he holds in his hands. The tips of his ears are pink.

“Yes,” she grins, “He’s talked about you.”

“Really?” He doesn’t remember Derek volunteering information about anyone or anything, even when it was a matter of life and death.

More customers enter the restaurant and Ana leaves to speak to them.

“So- uh?” Stiles begins, as Ana walks away.

The look Derek levels at him does not invite further conversation. For once Stiles decides to let the matter drop. Whatever Derek’s been saying about him, he's probably better off not knowing.

Later, when Ana comes to take their order, she insists that Stiles try the feijoada. Stiles lets himself be convinced and doesn’t regret it.

After that she brings over two bottles of beer so cold that ice is still sticking to them, and he and Derek sit together, away from the bustle and chatter, nursing their drinks.

Every now and then Ana comes by to fuss over them and ply them with extra food, or bring them more beer. She keeps smiling at Derek, fond, and almost proud. Stiles suspects that if she felt she could get away with pinching Derek’s cheek she would.

 

-

 

“Where's Cora?” he asks, as the evening slips away from them.

“Argentina.” Derek leans back in his chair.

“Cool. Do you see much of her?”

He shrugs, “Went down to visit her last Christmas. She seems settled.”

“Good, that's- good.” Stiles carefully peels the label off his beer and starts to shred it. “What's Argentina like?”

He glances across. Derek meets his gaze and cocks his head, considering the question. “Good steak,” he says at last.

Stiles snorts with surprised laughter, “Steak? Don’t break any stereotypes Derek. _Jesus._ How do you eat it? Rare? No, raw and bleeding, like your angst-ridden heart.”

Derek quirks an eyebrow, “Actually,” he deadpans, “I prefer it tough and leathery, like your shrivelled soul.”

“Bastard.” Stiles grins into his beer. 

The corner of Derek’s mouth twitches with a smile. His expression warm, eyes soft in the dim light of the restaurant. Stiles has to look away. His ability to coax a smile from Derek has always made him feel strange and powerful. It’s such a rare thing to see, and to have caused it now makes something warm and anxious unfurl in his chest. He quickly changes the subject.

“Did you join a pack here or-?”

“No,” Derek shakes his head, “It’s not necessary. In a city as big as São Paulo, territory lines are a little more- elastic. I made myself known to the local Alpha, but I’m not expected to join the pack officially.”

“Huh! That’s interesting-”

Before he knows it they’re discussing pack politics and hierarchy in large cities.

It feels so natural to be sitting here with Derek. Talking and laughing like they don’t have a care in the world. For one moment, he lets himself pretend that this is _real,_ that this is his to keep and he’s not going to have to give it up in two weeks time.

 

-

 

When they finally decide to head home, Ana shows them to the door talking avidly to Derek in Portuguese. She kisses both his cheeks, then turns to Stiles.

“Boa noite, Stiles, it was so _good_ to finally meet you.” She takes his hands and clasps them tightly in her own then leans forward and kisses both Stiles’ cheeks. “Take care of him,” she whispers in his ear.

“I-” Stiles glances across to check Derek’s reaction, but he’s already left the restaurant, the door banging shut behind him. Stiles follows after, confused.

 

-

 

It’s nearly midnight when they arrive back at the apartment. Derek calls dibs on using the bathroom first. Stiles strips to his boxers and a ratty t-shirt. He sits on the bed awkwardly, he can hear Derek move about the bathroom, brushing his teeth and taking a shower. For a moment he listens to the water drum steadily against the tiles. Sighing he slips under the covers, sitting with his back against the headboard, knees bent; then grabs his phone and flicks aimlessly through the apps. He needs to distract himself from the fact that Derek is probably naked right now.

It’s pointless. When Derek finally leaves the bathroom his hair is damp and slightly flat where it’s been washed. He’s wearing soft grey sweatpants that cling to his ass, and a white tank top, that shows off his broad shoulders and muscular arms. Stiles curls over with his back to him and tries to think of other things.

“Night,” Derek calls as he pads through to the living room.

“Night.”

He waits until the door shuts before scuttling to the bathroom and climbing into a cold shower.

Later, he snuggles back down under the covers. Derek’s put clean sheets on the bed and Stiles buries his head under the pillow, breathing in the fresh, floral scent. He scrunches his eyes shut. Outside he can hear the noises of the city. Cars drive by, sirens wail, people talk. The faint thrum of music carries on the air from the boteco downstairs. In Beacon Hills any tiny noise was enough to make him panic. Now, there’s so _much_ ambient noise it’s almost a comfort. It’s impossible to fear the dark when there are so many signs of normal life carrying on all around him. Besides, Derek’s in the next room, strong and warm and _real_ and maybe it’s the alcohol making his brain muzzy, but it feels like nothing can hurt him here. He lets the sounds of the city lull him into a fitful sleep.

 

-

 

He dreams himself standing over Donovan’s limp body and lifeless eyes. Panic, nausea and regret rise in his chest. He watches as Donovan’s body transforms into Allison’s,  her eyes open, lifeless and cold. ' _Sore wa anata no sekinindesu, Nogitsune_ ’  she says, her voice dry as bone, ‘ _Watashi ga shinda to sore wa anata no sekinindesu_.' Her hand whips out to grab his ankle and clutches it in a vice like grip. He screams, lashing out wildly, but she pulls him down, down, down, the earth cracks beneath him, swallowing him whole.

He’s hurled violently from sleep to wakefulness, panic clawing at his chest. He twists and writhes, trapped in his sheets, still trying to escape the dream.

“Stiles!” Derek’s hunched over him, his voice panicked.

Stiles lashes out wildly with his fists, but Derek catches his wrists easily and restrains him as he fights the fading memory of the dream.

“Stiles! It’s a dream, it’s just a dream.”

Eventually Stiles goes limp and Derek releases him. He flops back on the bed, breathing hard, his heart pounding frantically in his chest.

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “Oh fuck.” He’s trembling and as he scrubs his hands over his face he can feel the damp streak of tears. “Fuck!”

It’s dark in the room except for a thin sliver of light peeking through the curtains from the streetlamp outside. Derek kneels back, resting on his heels. The bedroom’s so small he had to climb onto the bed to wake Stiles up. Stiles can’t make out his face clearly, but he can feel the weight of his gaze.

“You want a drink?” Derek asks eventually.

Stiles takes a couple more shaky breaths. “Yeah,” he admits. “Yeah that’d be good.”

The bed creaks a little as Derek climbs off it and edges out the room. He returns quickly with a glass of water. Stiles sits up to accept it from him.

Derek hovers over him watchfully. He doesn’t ask about the dream, just stands there, as Stiles takes long, slow sips of water.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, reaching out to place his glass on the chest of drawers. He can just make out Derek’s answering nod. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” There's a long pause, he half expects Derek to leave, but it doesn’t happen and he’s not sure what else to say. “I’ll be okay now.”

Derek steps forward. “Stiles…”

“I’ll be okay,” Stiles says firmly.

Derek huffs out a sigh. “Fine,” he sounds pissed off. He turns and stalks to the door closing it behind him.

Stiles sits there in the darkness, listening, trying to make out the sound of Derek getting back into whatever bed he’s made for himself on the couch. He feels foolish now that the horror of the dream has faded, embarrassed that Derek had to see him like that. He doesn’t allow himself to sleep again until the sun has drifted up over the horizon.

 

-

 

When he wakes after a couple of hours sleep, it's to the smell of eggs and bacon wafting through the apartment. He tugs on some sweatpants, and follows his nose out of the bedroom to find Derek standing over a large frying pan that’s balanced precariously on the tiny stove. Stiles can’t help noticing Derek’s wearing low slung sweatpants and yet another plaid shirt.

“Hungry?” Derek asks.

“Starving.”

“Good.” Derek pushes strips of crisp bacon and perfectly cooked scrambled eggs onto a plate. “Take this and go sit on the couch.”

Stiles doesn’t need to be told twice. “Ohmygod!” he mumbles through a mouthful of food. “This is so ‘mazing.”

Derek brings two cups of coffee over and places them on the coffee table. Then grabs his own plate, also piled high with bacon and eggs, and takes a seat next to Stiles.

“Ten out of ten for the food,” Stiles decrees. He leans forward and grabs his mug, takes a big mouthful and nearly spits it everywhere. “Minus two for this coffee though. Jesus! What the fuck is this?” He bangs the mug back on the table with extreme prejudice, and it’s contents slop everywhere.

Derek scowls, “Clean that up!”

“I was going to!” Stiles says, injured. “It’s not my fault you tried to kill me with that-”

“It’s just instant coffee! I don’t have a _fucking_ espresso machine. Stop complaining, it’s not battery acid!”

“Uh! It may as well be!” Stiles grabs a dishtowel from the kitchen and returns to mop up the spill.

Derek crams another slice of bacon into his mouth. He chews belligerently. Then grabs his mug and chugs his coffee in several deep swallows. He glares at Stiles the entire time like it’s a challenge, and then slams the empty mug down on the coffee table.

“This country produces like, what, a _third_ of the world’s coffee Derek!” Stiles explodes, gesticulating wildly. “There’s no good reason to be drinking this shit when you live _here_. That’s like going to Italy and refusing to eat anything except Pepperoni Pizza Hot Pockets!”

“So, the _best_ kind of Hot Pocket.”

“Okay first of all, lies! Philly Cheese Steak is the one true Hot Pocket. Secondly, the only reason you can get away with drinking that shit,” he gestures at the mug, “is because of your fucking werewolf healing. We are buying _decent_ coffee today Derek, or a filter or _something_! If I try and drink that again it’ll burn a hole straight through me.”

Derek grins sharp, just a hint of fang visible. “What a tragedy that would be.” He stands, “Better hurry up then, if we’re going out.”

Stiles disappears off to the bedroom, grumbling loudly. He’s the most _himself_ he’s been in months.

 

-

 

“Don’t you have to work?” Stiles asks, once they're both washed and dressed and finally ready to leave.

Derek locks the apartment behind them and leads Stiles down the stairs. “I took two weeks off.”

Stiles stomach flips, “Because-”

Derek turns as he reaches the bottom of the stairs and shoots Stiles a look that suggests he may be the stupidest person alive. “Because- you were going to be here,” he says with exaggerated slowness.

He turns and walks down the little corridor that leads to the door out of the building. Stiles stands on the stairs, jaw hanging open.

Derek glances back and huffs in frustration, “Are you coming?”

“Wha-? Sure. I’m- yeah… wait up!” Stiles stumbles forward a step, and then runs to catch him up, fighting the urge to smile.

 

-

 

After a brief argument about what constitutes a good way to spend their time, they decide to postpone their shopping trip till the afternoon and spend the morning enjoying the sunshine in Ibirapuera Park. They wander around the lake, and Stiles takes photographs of the black swans on his phone. Derek buys them both coconut water from a stand, which to Stiles’ delight is served fresh, from a green coconut with a straw stuck in the top. They sit together under the shade of a big tree sipping their drinks, enjoying the view of the lake.

“This is nice,” Stiles stretches his legs out, and leans back against the rough bark. Here, in the bright sunshine and saturated colors of São Paulo, the bleak supernatural shitshow that is Beacon Hills feels so distant. He could almost allow himself to relax. “How long will you stay in São Paulo?” 

Derek leans back against the tree, his shoulder knocking against Stiles’. “The construction job’s supposed to last another three months or so. After that...” he shrugs.

“So there’s nothing else tying you here, no friends or uh- girlfriend?”

Both Derek’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline. “No,” he says carefully, watching Stiles. “No girlfriend.”

The knot in Stiles’ chest loosens further; he doesn’t know where to look. Instead he wraps his lips around his straw and takes a long sip, cheeks hollowing.

Derek averts his gaze and watches the swans swim about the lake in lazy circles.

Before long Stiles finishes his own drink, slurping noisily and moans, “God, that was amazing!” He takes the straw and chases the last drops of coconut water off it with his tongue. Derek turns to watch him wide-eyed, then his eyebrows bunch in a little vee of disapproval.

“What?” Stiles says, “Hey! If you don’t want yours-” He reaches out for Derek’s coconut.

“I do,” Derek says firmly, tugging it out of Stiles’ reach, “and before you ask, I’m not buying you another one, not until you can drink it without-”

“Without _what?_ ”

“You _know_ what.”

“No, I don’t! What? Tell me!”

Derek sighs and gets up hugging his coconut under one plaid-covered arm. “Enough. We’re going shopping for coffee.”

Stiles stares after him, “You didn’t answer! What am I supposed to know Derek? What?” He scrambles to his feet. “Anyway!” he calls after him, “I can buy my own coconut water you know! I don’t need your permission!”

Derek doesn’t reply, just stalks away until Stiles has no choice but to hurry after him.

 

-

 

Stiles is in love.

The espresso machine in question, is sleek and black and shiny and it promises to make the most amazing coffee he has ever tasted. It’s also the most expensive thing in the shop.

He stares at it longingly, gently caressing the smooth veneer, while Derek stands with an eager shop assistant looking at coffee presses and filters and a whole lot of other, less impressive options.

“You like that one?” Derek asks, appearing next to him without warning.

“Uh- yeah!” Stiles replies, “I mean, it’s ludicrously expensive, but look at all the settings! Plus it looks so futuristic. Like it could make awesome coffee and then fly you to the moon.”

Derek rolls his eyes.

Stiles sighs and turns to face him. “So! Did you find a coffee press that you liked? Or a filter? Or anything that means I won’t be stuck drinking that instant shit again?”

Derek looks at him, expression impassive, and shrugs.

 

-

 

The espresso machine looks ridiculously out of place sitting in Derek’s tiny kitchen. Stiles still can’t quite believe Derek bought it.

“I love it,” Stiles says reverently. “It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Derek eyes him askance, “I can’t work out if that’s a complement to the espresso machine or a terrible indictment of your life so far.”

“Both,” Stiles says hip checking Derek out of the way, “Now, stand aside, Derek! I’m finally going to make us some decent coffee.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but he moves back, allowing Stiles to stand in front of the machine. “The coffee this morning was not _that_ bad,” Derek insists. He steps forward until he’s right behind Stiles. Close, but not quite touching. Stiles can feel the heat pouring off of him, the way his breath skates over the crook of Stiles' neck as he leans over to check what Stiles is doing.

Stiles shivers. “Oh please! Admit it! I was basically the victim of a failed poisoning attempt this morning!” he blusters, heart skipping erratically in his chest. “If that’s the kind of coffee you’ve been drinking since I met you, then it explains a LOT. The constant aura of brooding, the grumpiness…” he glances back to meet Derek’s eyes and trails off.

Derek’s watching him intently, expression unreadable.

Their faces are so close.

Stiles clears his throat and licks his lips nervously. “I should uh-”

Derek blinks, once, twice, and then take a step back. “I’ll get the mugs,” he says gruffly.

 

-

 

They go out to a bar that evening and stay out until late drinking beer and chatting. When they finally return later that night, Stiles doesn’t even try to sleep. He doesn’t want to risk having a nightmare and waking Derek again. Instead he sits on the bed, in the dark, reading on his phone late into the night. It’s 3AM when he looks up to find Derek looming in the doorway, silhouetted by light streaming in from the living room.

“Is everything okay?” Stiles sits up in bed.

“You’re not asleep.”

“No.”

Derek eyes him through the gloom, “You hardly slept last night either.”

“I did eventually, and how do you know that anyway? Oh God! You listened into my heart rate, didn’t you? Like the massive creeper you are.”

Derek doesn’t bother to deny it, just stares at Stiles, one eyebrow raised in a question. He wields the silence like a weapon, knowing Stiles won’t be able to resist filling it.

“I’ve been getting nightmares,” Stiles admits, finally, “and I have insomnia. Basically if I’m asleep there are nightmares but I hardly ever manage to _get_ to sleep now so…” he shrugs.

Derek sighs, and glares about the room. “I could bring my laptop in,” he offers awkwardly. “We could watch something together- if you want.”

“That sounds gre- just a minute! You have a _laptop_ ?” A gleeful smile spreads across Stiles’ face. “You?! Derek ‘ _how long will the internet take_?’ Hale, has a laptop? When did that happen? Oh my God, go and get it! Show me! I need to see it to believe it. Fuck! Do you even know how to use it?”

“Of course I-”

“No! Don’t ruin it- let me have my moment! I’m trying to imagine you with it and it’s already funnier than that time Scott’s grandmother got a Twitter account.” His eyes widen, “Just a minute, have _you_ started using social media? Are you on Twitter Derek? Tell me you are! Tell me you’ve tweeted, it will make my life one-hundred percent better.”

“Actually,” Derek says, deadpan, “I’m thinking of signing up to the Facebook, I hear that’s where all the cool kids are.”

Stiles lets out a snort of surprised laughter. “Oh God! I can see it now. You’d probably have one photograph of yourself looking like a serial killer, and a wall full of Words With Friends notifications. No, Derek, Facebook is not for you. You should- fuck! You should get a tumblr account. You could have one of those aesthetic blogs, and it’ll just be pictures of rugged landscapes, and wolves, and eyebrows, and wolves _with_ eyebrows. Or, I know-” he starts to laugh, “We could photoshop your eyebrows onto photographs of wolves!”

“I don’t understand half the words you say,” Derek says flatly, “I mean, I know they’re words, but the order you say them in makes no _sense._ ”

“Go and get the laptop,” Stiles commands, “I’m gonna think of a name for your future blog. Oh! How about _eyebrows-for-wolves_ because you know, eyebrows also _sounds_ like ‘I browse’ like browsing the internet… for wolves! You see? _Clever_.”

“Shut up Stiles.” Derek glares as Stiles dissolves into further fits of laughter, and then gives a long suffering sigh. He leaves the room and returns a few seconds later, holding a beaten old laptop which he plugs into a nearby wall socket.  

Stiles scooches across in the bed a bit to create room. Derek slides in along side him and pulls the covers over their knees.

“Ugh,” Stiles says as the laptop boots up, “It’s ancient, and Window 8 Derek, _really?_ ”

“If you keep mocking my laptop, I’ll take the espresso machine back to the shop in the morning,” Derek threatens as he peers at the keyboard and then jabs a key vengefully with his index finger.

“Who’s complaining?” Stiles amends quickly, “Personally I _liked_ the fact that they removed the start button in Windows 8. It was a bold creative decision. _Bold._ ” He watches Derek tap out his password laboriously, “Also hunt and peck typing is an art form, so kudos to you for keeping that tradition alive for future generations to appreciate.” Derek glares at him. “Don’t take the espresso machine away!” Stiles whimpers, “I’m being _nice._ ”

“Nice?” Derek snorts, “You’ve never been _nice._ ”

“I could be,” Stiles says, stung.

Derek rolls his eyes. “Pick something to watch.” He gestures at the laptop which now displays the Netflix home screen.

Stiles scowls, but leans over and begins to scroll through the options.

 

-

 

He’s not sure what time it is when he wakes, but the sun is high in the sky and streaming in through the gap in the curtains. The first thing he realizes is that he slept _._ He slept for more than just a couple of hours, and he doesn’t remember having a single nightmare. Not one. He feels rested _._

The second thing he realizes is that his face is kind of smushed against the broad expanse of Derek’s chest. Derek’s arm is tight around his waist and the laptop is nowhere to be seen. He’s not sure at what point last night they went from watching Brooklyn Nine-nine to snuggling under the covers, but apparently that _is_ a thing that happened.

His third realization follows hot on the heels of the second. He has a- _situation_ , in his pants. His morning wood is currently pressed into Derek’s hip. If he moves at all he risks alerting Derek to its presence, however the fact that his cock is nestled up against the warm muscular body of Derek _fucking_ Hale means his boner isn’t going anywhere any time soon.

Also, to add to his woes, after a late night drinking alcohol he now really, really, _really_ needs to pee. 

Basically, he’s screwed.

After a brief but intense moment where he allows himself the mother of all internal freak outs, he decides to fall back on his best and most reliable plan: Ignoring the problem until it goes away, (or until he pisses himself - whichever happens first).

After a couple of minutes it becomes clear that ignoring his boner is doing nothing to stop it at all, so he closes his eyes and forces himself to focus on the most deeply unsexy things he can. _Grouting,_ he thinks to himself, forehead scrunched in concentration, _drain hair, Greenburg’s sweaty jock-strap. Urghh..._

“I know you’re awake, Stiles,” Derek’s voice rumbles in his ear. “I can hear your heartbeat.”

Stiles stiffens and lifts his head slowly to look at Derek. The bastard has a self-satisfied smirk on his face, and is all impossibly gorgeous eyes and sleep-tousled hair in the warm golden light of day.

“Right,” Stiles croaks, feeling himself blush with his entire body. “Sorry, I’ll just-” He pushes himself up on his forearms and tries to move away.

Derek’s arm tightens around him, “Where are you going?”

Stiles swallows nervously, his dick is digging into Derek’s hip with intent. There’s no way Derek can’t feel it too. “I just-” The words die in his throat.

The smirk slips off Derek’s face. He watches Stiles keenly, lips twisted in an uncertain smile. “Stay.”  

The word hangs in the air between them. Slowly, carefully, like he’s expecting Stiles to pull away, Derek leans in and presses a kiss to Stiles’ mouth.

Once, just once, Stiles allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to kiss Derek Hale. He’d assumed a lot of things. He’d assumed he would be the one to initiate it. He’d assumed that it would be the finishing move to some kind of intense argument. He’d assumed that it would be a rough, angry, careless thing. The way their words often were.

He was wrong on all counts.

Stiles’ eyes flutter shut and he lets himself feel the rasp of Derek’s stubble, the soft pressure of his lips moving, the hitch of his own breath and the rush of blood in his ears.

When Derek finally pulls back, Stiles keeps his eyes shut and exhales shakily. It feels so unreal. The moment is stretched thin and brittle between them, one wrong word and it will shatter like glass. He opens his eyes to find Derek watching him again, his expression open and vulnerable. He looks younger than Stiles has ever seen him.

“Wha-?” Stiles manages.

“I _like_ you,” Derek says, weighing out each word carefully. He runs a finger along Stiles jaw. A smile flickers at the corner of his mouth, “Try not to be a dick about it.”

Stiles huffs out a laugh, shivering under Derek’s touch. “I uh- I like you too, and I missed you.” The simple truth of that statement, and his relief at finally saying it aloud is overwhelming. He feels it in his bones.

Derek’s responding smile is beautiful. He leans in and kisses Stiles again. This time it’s firmer, more insistent, and as their lips connect Derek flips them, so that Stiles is on his back. The weight of Derek’s body presses him into the bed.

“I’ve missed you too,” Derek mutters, “So _fucking_ much.” He rolls his hips, and Stiles can feel the thick line of Derek’s cock through his sweatpants, so close to his own. His eyes roll back in his head.

“Guh!” he manages, hands gripping Derek’s shoulders, fingernails digging in tight. “Oh God, this is so hot!” he mutters, between frantic kisses. “So, so hot, and I can’t believe I’m about to say this!” He squirms uncomfortably, wriggling against Derek, “Don’t hate me, but… I really, _really_ need to pee!” 

Derek pauses, raises himself up on to his forearms, one eyebrow quirked, “Say that again.”

“We drank a lot last night. I need to pee!” Stiles says defensively. A rosy blush works its way up his neck and onto his cheeks.

Derek chokes back a laugh, drops his head and buries it into the crook of Stiles’ neck, his shoulders shaking.

“Laugh it up, big guy!” Stiles grumbles, “We’ll see how funny you find it when I’ve pissed the _bed_.”

Derek rolls off him onto his back, and puts a pillow over his face to stifle his laughter. Stiles climbs over him to get out of the bed. He can still hear Derek snickering as he waddles to the door, “I lied,” he grouses, “I didn’t miss you at _all_.”

 

-

 

He spends a little longer than is strictly necessary in the bathroom, embarrassed and elated. He stares in the tiny bathroom mirror as he washes his hands. He’s still there, still the same Stiles. The skin around his eyes is still smudged purple where he hasn’t slept properly for too long, he’s still pale and gaunt and yet- the expression _in_ his eyes is softer, brighter than he remembers, an echo of the way they used to look. It’s not a lot, but it’s something.

He re-enters the bedroom to find Derek kneeling up on the bed, waiting for him.

“You stopped laughing then?” Stiles says, stopping as his knees knock up against the mattress.

Derek shrugs, “There are other things I want to do.”

He rests his hands lightly on Stiles' waist and leans in. This time it’s a long, languid kiss. Stiles’ lips part easily, relishing the slick slide of Derek’s tongue against his own. Derek’s fingers tangle briefly in the short hair at the nape of Stiles’ neck, trail down his side, over the swell of his ass, before finally pulling him down onto the bed where they sprawl together, breathless and hard. Leisurely, Derek maps out each part of him, careful and attentive, paying attention to the places that make Stiles gasp or sigh. He uncovers the ticklish spot just over Stiles’ hip, and the way Stiles squirms in pleasure whenever Derek mouths at the sensitive skin on his neck. 

Soon, Stiles is straining against his underwear again, and Derek hasn’t even got a hand to his cock yet. “Maybe take this off?” Stiles mumbles, tugging at Derek’s white tank top.

Derek sits up and pulls it easily over his head. “You too.” He gestures to Stiles ratty t-shirt.

“I- uh.” He hesitates. Derek looks like someone has carve him out of marble, and Stiles- Stiles does not. 

“Stiles-?”

_Fuck it._

He sits up and tugs the t-shirt over his head. Derek watches him intently. Then he reaches out slowly and traces a finger gently around Stiles' most recent injuries, the yellowing bruises and the raw pink of the stab wound, an unreadable look in his eyes.

"It doesn't hurt anymore."  
  
Derek's mouth tightens in a frown.

Stiles bites his lip. He doesn't  _want_ this. He doesn't want to get side-tracked, he doesn't want to be thought of as some fragile, helpless, victim. He doesn't want to be  _weak._  
  
He surges forward and kisses Derek hard and raw. For a moment Derek doesn't respond and Stiles briefly wonders if a few bruises and a healing scar have been enough to kill the mood. He's about to pull back when Derek finally gets with the program, _finally_ starts kissing him back. He pushes Stiles back gently until he's laid out on the bed beneath him.

"Thank fuck," Stiles murmurs, and Derek huffs out a laugh against his skin.  
  
They're both achingly hard now, and Stiles desperately needs this to go _somewhere_. As if he can read Stiles' mind, Derek dips his hand under the waistband of Stiles underwear. He pulls them down carefully and gets his hand around him in a firm grip. Stiles’ hips buck at the first stroke, but Derek’s hand moves, relentless and sure, until Stiles can do nothing but throw his arm over his face, trying to hold on. Trying to make it _last._ It's too much though, and he turns his head to the side half burying it in the pillow, as he comes with a bitten off cry. 

He’s floating, high and bright. Brain too muzzy to think, barely aware as Derek pulls off his own underwear, lines himself up against the vee of Stiles' hip and moves against him. Tight powerful jabs of hips that start to stutter as Derek tips over the edge into his own release, and then slumps over him, heavy and warm, sticky and sated.

Afterwards, when they’ve cleaned up, Derek curls into Stiles’ side and rests his head on Stiles' chest.

Stiles pets his hair idly.

"That was awesome," he slurs and Derek hums his agreement.

The room is a drowsy comforting fug, musky with the scent of sweat and sex and _them_.

Within a few minutes they’ve both drifted back to sleep.

For once, Stiles doesn’t dream.

 

-


	2. Chapter 2

When they finally wake up it’s evening, and the sun is dipping low on the horizon. They drift into the kitchen and Derek starts to scrounge up some food for them. Stiles wanders over to the balcony and looks out at the darkening sky, the first stars just visible above the rooftops. He’s slept more deeply today, in Derek’s arms, than at any point in the last two years. Now, he feels pleasantly lethargic, satisfied, complete in a way he hadn’t known was possible.

He steals a glance at Derek, puttering about the kitchen happily. _It can’t last,_ he thinks to himself, _you’ve got to leave soon. This isn’t forever, don’t get comfortable._

He pushes the thought away. He can’t focus on that right now. He just _can’t._ He needs this too much.

As he looks about the room, he notices the bedsheets Derek abandoned last night are still lying in a crumpled heap on the couch, and moves to fold them. A plaid shirt and a pair of jeans are stacked neatly on the coffee table. Stiles reaches out and runs his finger over the soft cotton of the shirt.

“So what's with the sudden devotion to plaid, Derek?”

Derek’s facing the cooker, but Stiles doesn’t miss the way his back stiffens at the question, or the way the tips of his ears turn pink.

“Derek?” Stiles asks again, his curiosity piqued.

“I- uh- bought them for work.”

Stiles eyes him skeptically, “And...”

Derek’s ears are crimson now. “They’re- comfortable.”

“ _Jesus_ , you are a truly terrible liar.”

“It’s not a lie, they _are_ comfortable.” Derek turns to face him and scowls.

Stiles stares pointedly at him, he crosses his arms.

“Fine,” Derek explodes grumpily. The blush on his ears creeps to his cheekbones. He’s wielding the spatula like a sword and there’s a glob of sauce on his chin. Stiles’ heart swells in his chest. “Fuck. Fine.” Derek mutters angrily, “Fine. I- _did_ buy them for work, but then I kept wearing them when I wasn’t at work because-” he trails off.

“Because-”

“Because they’re _comfortable_ and because… I missed you,” Derek confesses grudgingly. “Are you satisfied? I found I liked wearing the _fucking_ plaid, because it made me think of _you_.” He looks _appalled_.

Stiles grins. “You _like_ me.”

“We established that already,” Derek rolls his eyes. 

“You like me, and not just since I’ve been here, you liked me _before._ ” Stiles stalks towards him, grinning lasciviously.

Derek brandishes his spatula, “Stay away, or I’ll end up burning the rice.”

“Threats won’t work now,” Stiles murmurs, moving in close and tucking his thumbs into the back of Derek’s sweatpants. “I know your secret.”

Derek looks amused, in spite of himself. “What secret’s that?”

Stiles leans in and kisses him on the lips, short and sweet. Then licks the sauce off his chin.

“You think I’m an amazing, irresistible sex god and you want to get in my pants.”

Derek considers, “Hmmm, I think you’re an irritating, infuriating _asshole,_ who talks too much, doesn’t listen and always assumes he’s right.”

“Which is your _type_.” Stiles winks.

“Yeah,” Derek says, reluctant affection in every syllable, “it is.” He leans in for a long kiss.

Twenty minutes later, they’re tangled together naked and sweaty on the floor of the kitchen.

Derek sniffs the air, nose wrinkling in disgust. “Fuck,” he hisses, detaching himself from Stiles as he scrambles to his feet, “Fuck! I burned the rice.”

 

-

 

Derek starts dinner again. While he’s cooking Stiles moves the coffee table to one side, and then pushes the couch forward so that it’s almost up to the balcony. He throws the glass doors wide. The evening air is cool against his skin. It must have rained while they were asleep, and the street below is damp, but still buzzing with life, people scurrying around below, going about their business.

He notices for the first time that the balcony is filled to bursting with flowerpots of all shapes and sizes. They’re all filled with plants. Some of them he recognizes as herbs: rosemary and cilantro, parsley. There’s something that _might_ be a tomato plant, a couple of other vegetably looking things Stiles doesn’t recognize and plenty of spiky shrubs. What really catches his eye though are the flowers. Elegant green stems that lead to an explosion of delicate, brightly colored petals. It’s a riot of color and the scent is amazing.

“Are these yours?” he asks. “Or the landlord’s?”

“Mine,” Derek admits, stirring a pot with a wooden spoon.

“Huh.” Stiles reaches out and runs his finger over a fragile, yellow petal. “I didn’t know you liked gardening.”

“It’s peaceful.”

Stiles thinks about it later that night after dinner. They lie tangled together on the couch by the open doors, looking out at the night sky. He likes the idea of Derek coming back from building houses all day and taking the time to tend his little balcony garden, planting seeds, nurturing them. Letting things put down roots and encouraging them to grow _. Is this who Derek really is?_ He wonders.

Back in Beacon Hills, Derek was fueled by restive anger. Seeing him here is a revelation. He’s beginning to question whether he ever really knew Derek at all. Everything about him here is so much softer. He’s still awkward, still gruff, still recognizably _Derek,_ but the jagged edge of anger that cut through everything isn’t there any more.

 _Derek can never come back to Beacon Hills_. The knowledge settles on him heavily. Beacon Hills will destroy this Derek. All the progress he’s made, the peace he’s found, the person he’s become, it will all be lost if he returns to Beacon Hills. _No_. Stiles won’t let that happen. _He won’t_.

“What are you thinking about?” Derek asks, “Your heartbeat is going crazy.”

Stiles tugs Derek’s head up from where it’s resting on his chest. “Kiss me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Stiles leans forward and kisses him. Once, twice, then again a little deeper. He cups the back of Derek’s head and runs his fingers through his hair. Keeps initiating soft, wet, lazy kisses that make them both restless and hard, hips canting upward and grinding down, both seeking more friction.  
  
He keeps kissing him, keeps moving, until they’ve both forgotten that Derek asked the question.

 

-

 

The next day they sleep in late. Stiles can’t remember whether he dreamed. All he knows is that he woke to find Derek mouthing idly at his shoulder, arms locked tight around him, enveloping him. Keeping him safe. In the afternoon, when they finally manage to get out of bed, Derek insists on taking Stiles out to see the art at the Pinacoteca do Estado de São Paulo. Stiles hasn’t really ever had much of an interest in art, but wandering around the light airy rooms of the gallery, he thinks maybe he could develop one. There’s something peaceful about the quiet of the rooms, the hushed voices people use as they discuss the works hanging on the walls.

“Do you come here often?” he asks Derek as they stand looking at a landscape. Rugged cliffs jutting out over rough blue seas.

“Sometimes.”

“I never picked you as someone who would be interested in art.” Stiles admits.

“I’m not-” Derek hesitates, “Laura was- she was the one who-”

Stiles reaches for his hand, tangles their fingers together and squeezes gently.

He doesn’t let go.

 

-

 

They go out for dinner again that night to the same restaurant as before. Ana fusses over them both, and smiles in a way that is all too knowing.

When she comes to clear the table, Derek’s disappeared off to use the bathroom.

“Are you enjoying your visit, Stiles?” she asks picking up Stiles plate and resting it in the crook of her arm.

“Yeah, really good.”

“ _Excelente!_ Where has he taken you so far?”

He tells her about the art gallery and the park, and their intended shopping trip tomorrow.

“Make sure he shows you the beach, Litoral Norte is a little drive, but very good.” 

Stiles nods, “I’ll make a note of it.”

She smiles, “I’m so _happy_ you are here, Stiles.” She grabs Derek’s plate.

“So does he uh- talk about me a lot or something?” Stiles can feel the blush creeping up his cheeks, but he just _has_ to know.

Ana wrinkles her nose thoughtfully. “He doesn’t talk about _anyone_ a lot. That’s not his way. He hoards information like _um dragão_? Uh- a dragon sitting on top of his treasure, guarding it jealously. Trusting no-one. So, when he _does_ talk about someone, even though it may not seem like much- you know they matter and you know he trusts you with that little part of himself. You see?”

“So uh- what did he tell you about me?”

She grins slyly, “He came in not quite a month ago. He looked tired and uh- _preocupado_ \- worried. I asked him what was wrong. He says ‘nothing’, so I give him a drink and some food, we chat a little. He tells me this ‘annoying guy from back home called me on the phone in the middle of the night’. That’s it. Next thing I know he tells me you are coming to stay for a week. You are the annoying guy!”

“That’s it?” Stiles exclaims. He’s not sure what he was expecting, but this isn’t it.

Ana chuckles, “It doesn’t seem like much to you? You were the first person he ever talked about, in four months!”

“He said I was annoying.” Stiles points out.

“Okay, but he _says_ ‘annoying guy.’ His expression though,” she laughs, “he _likes_ to be annoyed by you.”

Derek appears from the bathroom, killing the conversation. Ana winks at Stiles and wanders back to the bar, and he sits there turning her words over and over in his head.

 

-

 

As they drift back through the streets to the apartment Stiles feels pleasantly buzzed. Derek seems to be too, even though technically beer has no effect on werewolves. It's coming up to a full moon though, Stiles thinks, as Derek pushes him up against a shop window and kisses him breathless _again_. Derek hasn’t stopped touching him. Ever since they held hands at the gallery this afternoon he’s been tactile, attentive _._ Constant little touches, points of contact that leave Stiles feeling twitchy and anxious, warmth fizzing in the pit of his stomach. Tension that needs to find release.

As soon as they step back into the apartment and the door closes behind them, Derek reaches for him, kissing him urgently. He backs him up against the kitchen counter and grinds their hips together until Stiles is seeing stars.

“Fuck,” Stiles mutters when they finally pull apart, “fuck.”

Derek’s looking at him, hair sticking up in wild tufts, lips red and kiss-bitten. “I want to,” he says. “I want you to fuck me.”

For the second time that week Stiles’ brain blue screens. “I-”

“If you don’t want to-” Derek begins.

“NO! No, I do. I just, I’ve never done that before. With a guy I mean.”

“Me either.” Derek admits. He looks away, ears reddening. “But I want to- with you.”

“Right,” Stiles’ heart pounds in his chest. He balls his fingers into fists nervously. “Right.”

Derek scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, still not looking at Stiles.

“Okay.” Stiles exhales, lets his fists loosen, fingers stretch. He reaches out, tilts Derek’s chin and guides him in for a brief kiss. “I want this with you too.”

 

-

 

It’s different.

Different than it was with Malia. With her it had been playful, fun. He cared about her, but it wasn’t… it wasn’t this.  
  
Derek's soft moans, and muffled gasps as Stiles eases him open with his fingers.  
  
The choked cry Derek makes as Stiles slowly slides in. The way Derek's body clings tight around him. Waiting for Derek to adjust, Stiles' every muscle trembling with the effort of holding himself still, because he won't move... won't move until he's sure Derek's ready for it, and then...

The first tentative thrust.   
  
The sensation. The intimacy of sharing that space.

Moving in Derek.  
  
Being part of Derek...  
  
...it’s like something in Stiles' chest has cracked open, split clean in two, and now he can't stop  _feeling_.  
  
Derek looks beautiful like this, laid out under him   
  
There’s nothing but this.

The two of them together.

The restless shift of Stiles' hips as he tries to find a rhythm. It's overwhelming.

Shaking, Stiles leans forward and presses a faltering kiss to Derek’s tattoo.

He rests his head against the sharp wing of Derek's shoulder blade and closes his eyes tight.

He can’t look… he can’t keep looking, or he won’t… he won’t last, and he wants to be good. He wants this to be good for _Derek._

Eyes scrunched shut, he bites his lip and thrusts forward again and Derek rocks back to meet him; and then just like that they've found their rhythm.

It like the answer to every argument they've ever had, as they move in perfect counterpoint to one another.  
  
It's different.

It's them.

 

-

 

Afterwards, in the afterglow, they lie entwined together and press damp, hungry kisses to each other's lips. Derek rolls onto his back, and tugs Stiles to him, fitting him along the lean line of his body in a sweaty hug. It all feels so natural, so inevitable.  So old and so new, all at the same time. Like they've always been this, just underneath the surface. But what are they? Stiles can't even begin to put a name to it.

"Was that okay?" Stiles gnaws his lip anxiously. 

Derek lifts his head to look at him, one eyebrow raised, "What do you think?"

Stiles sighs, "You know what I mean. Was it good for _you_? I mean it's the first time either of us have- y'know, and I just-"  
  
"You want me to fill out a comment card?"

"God, you're such an asshole," Stiles huffs.

Derek raises himself up on one elbow, and leans over till his breath is tickling against Stiles ear. "That's your type though. Right?"

He's smirking. He thinks he's so goddamn funny. Stiles rolls his eyes, "Apparently."

Derek snorts with laughter and then closes the distance between them in a fierce kiss.

Stiles doesn't know what this is, and he can't let himself think about it too much, because if he does, he knows he'll panic. Realistically, he knows that all that's waiting on the horizon for him is a bleak and uncertain future in Beacon Hills. So he wills those thoughts away, and returns Derek's kiss. In this moment right here, right now, he lets himself feel whole. He lets himself be content. 

 

-

 

The days drift by too quickly. They spend the mornings a confusion of limbs, tangled together in rumpled sheets. There’s no hurry to get out of their bed. Finally when they’re hungry enough, Derek makes breakfast and Stiles makes coffee in the ridiculous espresso machine.

Some days they even make it out the front door and when they do, Derek shows him around São Paulo.

The spend one afternoon at the Mercadao Municipal, exploring the different stalls and tempting themselves with the delicious food. One day they venture into the Jardins District, where Stiles buys his Dad a pair of expensive and brightly colored flip flops. In the evenings they go out for meals or cook together in their tiny kitchen. At night, Stiles curls up next to Derek in their bed and lets the sound of Derek’s steady breathing lull him into fitful sleep.

He still dreams, but now, when they turn to nightmares, he dreams a pair of strong arms wrapped around him, cradling him gently. He dreams the tender press of lips against his forehead, the back of his neck, his fingers. He dreams words whispered against his skin that soothe his fevered mind and send the nightmares scuttling back into the darkness.

He never wants to leave.

 

-

 

Two weeks pass by so quickly, on his last full day, they get up early and drive down to Litoral Norte, to spend the day at the beach. They swim in the ocean. Derek rubs sunscreen onto Stiles’ back in soothing circles and they spend long, hot hours sunbathing. It should be relaxing, but all Stiles can think about is the return ticket sitting in his suitcase back at their apartment.

Later as the sun starts to dip in the sky, Stiles stands at the water’s edge and breathes in the salt spray of the sea. He’s trying not to panic, but some things are painfully clear, and it’s becoming more and more difficult not to think about them.

He doesn’t want to go back to Beacon Hills. At all. Ever.

He doesn't have a choice about that though. He can’t leave his Dad, Scott and the rest of the pack to fight whatever battle comes next. He just _can’t._

He's cares about Derek and he wants to be with him, but Beacon Hills is the worst possible place for Derek to be.

He doesn’t know how to reconcile all these conflicting things. Even if he _could_ stay with Derek, if something happened to his Dad or Scott, he’d never forgive himself. But, when he goes back to Beacon Hills… who knows what fresh hell he’ll be walking into? Will he be able to help? Will he even survive it this time?

He scrunches his toes in the sand and watches as waves lap hungrily at his ankles.

Silently Derek approaches, slips his arms round Stiles’ waist, and hooks chin over his shoulder.

“You okay?” he asks, warm breath tickling Stiles’ ear.

"I'm fine."

They watch the restless sea in silence and then walk back up the beach to the car.

Tomorrow he’s leaving. He’s leaving his home and returning to hell.

 

-

 

That night Stiles washes up their plates and mugs in the sink. Derek stands next to him and fiddles idly with a dishcloth. He keeps casting thoughtful glances Stiles’ way, mouth opening like he wants to say something and then shutting again just as quickly.

“Are you okay?” Stiles nudges him with his hip.

Derek folds the dishcloth in half, than in quarters, and places it on the counter. “I’m coming back with you.”

Stiles head snaps up, he fixes Derek with a horrified stare.

“I’ve booked a flight, I did it the other night on the laptop,” Derek continues, finally looking at him. “There’s nothing tying me here and now we’re- together, I want to-”

“No.”

It comes out harsher than he means.

Derek’s eyes widen, there’s a flash of raw pain before he reins it in and schools his features to careful impassivity. “No?”

“You’re not coming back with me. You’re staying here.” Stiles keeps his voice even, neutral. He carefully rinses the soap of the plate he’s holding, places it on the counter and then turns to face Derek.

Derek stands shoulders tense, fists clenched at his sides, radiating hurt and anger. “I don’t understand,” he says at last, voice quiet and corrosive, “What? Do you not want us- did you see this as some kind of a- fling? Did you think you could come here, stay with me, sleep in my bed, _fuck_ me and then walk away like nothing happened? Is this a _game_ to you?”

“NO! No. Of course not.” Stiles reels back horrified and offended.

“Really?” Derek looks grim. “Because when I suggested coming home with you, you looked pretty _fucking_ appalled.”

“Yes! Because Beacon Hills is basically a colossal hell hole. It’s a bad place Derek, bad for everyone, but _especially_ bad for _you._ ” Stiles wrings his hands, “You think you _know,_ but you don’t. It’s only gotten worse since you left. I don’t want you to come back there with me, because I’m trying to _protect_ you.”

“And who’s protecting _you_ Stiles? Every night you’ve been here you’ve had nightmares. Every goddamn night you’re restless, calling out in your sleep. You don’t want to talk about what’s happened and I haven’t pushed, but I need to know, if you go back, who the fuck is protecting _you_?”

“That’s not the point!” Stiles spits angrily. “My dad is there, Scott, the pack… I don’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice, Stiles,” Derek argues, stepping forward, hands raised to placate him. “Always. If I came back with you-”

“NO! If you’re here, you’re safe. I need you to be _safe._ Do you understand me?” He’s shouting now, hot, angry tears burn his eyes but refuse to fall. “I need to know that at least one of the people I care about is safe.”

Derek drops his hands to his side, bewildered, “So what, I’m supposed to just sit here in stasis, while you go back to Beacon Hills and deal with whatever shit is kicking off over there? That’s bullshit, Stiles, it doesn’t make any fucking sense! Let me _help_ you.”

Stiles scrubs his palms over his face, “If you come back, you’ll be coming back for _me._ That’s the only reason you’re even considering this. Am I right?” Derek shrugs and Stiles laughs bitterly, “If you come back and something happens to you- because of _me..._ ” His hands shake.

Derek steps forward and grips his arms tightly, “Even if it did, it wouldn’t be your fault. This is my choice Stiles.”

Stiles pulls himself away, “No! I can’t. I can’t have anyone else die because of me. Not if I could stop it. I have to- I have to protect everyone. Do you understand? I _have_ to. We- this whatever it is between us, it’s over. Okay? Don’t follow me back. I- I can’t-”

“You don’t - you don’t mean that.”

Stiles can't look at him, can't look at the quiet devastation on his face, so he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and wills his heartbeat steady. When he opens them again, he says, “I do. It’s over Derek.” His voice doesn’t waver.

Derek’s mouth clenches shut. He swallows hard, blinking furiously.

Silence stretches out between them.

“Look, I-I’ll pack my stuff,” Stiles takes a step toward the bedroom. “I won’t stay here tonight.”

Derek catches his hand as he turns to leave. “Don’t do this, Stiles,” he says, voice soft and broken. “I’m in love with you, don’t leave me.”

Stiles takes a deep breath, then another. He knows what he has to do. “I’m sorry, Derek, I just- I can’t.” His hand slips out of Derek’s grasp.

Derek nods, abruptly, his expression shuts down, blank and impassive. He looks so fucking resigned. So used to having the people he loves leave. Somehow, of all the terrible things that Stiles has done so far in his short, shitty life, this feels like the worst. He has to look away.

“I’m uh, gonna head out for a bit,” Derek says, voice hollow. “Don’t leave, you can stay here and uh- I’ll be back in the morning, give you a lift to the airport.”

“Derek-” Stiles takes a step forward, hands outstretched. He’s not sure what to say or do, he only knows he wants to make this better, even though he _can’t_. He can’t wield the knife _and_ bandage the wound. Derek backs away out of reach.

“Don’t, Stiles, just- don’t.”

The apartment door slams shut behind him.

Stiles sinks to the floor and tries to remember how to breathe.

 

-

 

Stiles curls up in their bed that night alone, and doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t cry either. He just lies in the bed that smells of him, of Derek, of _them,_ and feels the dull, empty ache of his own heart. Derek comes back at around four, and Stiles listens to him pad about the apartment. He doesn't join Stiles.

When Stiles gets up the next morning, he packs his bags in hollow silence. All the progress he made in the last week means nothing. He feels more empty now than he did before. His hands tremble as he zips up his suitcase.

 _I’m doing the right thing,_ he chants to himself, _this is for the best. He might hate you, but at least he'll be alive to do it._

When he opens the door Derek’s standing there, dressed and waiting for him, arms folded tight across his chest. It’s a familiar pose, but one he hasn’t seen from Derek the whole time he’s been here. He swallows hard round the burning lump in his throat. For the first time since their argument, he thinks he might cry.

“Breakfast?”

Stiles shakes his head. He couldn’t eat even if he wanted to.

“I’ll drive you to the airport then.” Derek grabs his keys.

It’s probably an hour earlier than he needs to leave, but anything’s better that being in that tiny apartment. _Their_ apartment. _Their_ bed. _Their_ life. Two short weeks and that’s how he’d started to think of it. He wants to smack himself for being so stupid. For falling so hard, so fast. For not allowing himself to think about the consequences for both of them.

He follows Derek blindly to the car. The journey passes in silence and for a moment Stiles wonders if Derek will say anything at all, or whether he’ll just throw Stiles and his bags out of the car when they arrive and then drive off without a backward glance.

He doesn’t though, he parks up and carries Stiles bags with the same effortless ease as he had two weeks ago, while Stiles trails after him.

Once inside, Derek puts down the bags and they stand there looking at each other. Stiles can’t stand it any more. “I should probably go and check in.”

A muscle clenches in Derek’s jaw, he nods.

“You don’t have to stay,” Stiles says roughly. “I’ll be okay from here.” He can do this. He can walk away. He _has_ to.

Derek purses his lips, a muscle clenches in his jaw.

“Okay-” Stiles breathes, picking up his bags. “Okay. I’ll just-” he turns to leave.

“Stiles-” Derek’s voice is scratchy and raw.

He stops. “Yeah?”

“If Beacon Hills wasn’t- If you didn’t have to worry about your Dad or Scott or the pack. If-”

Stiles closes his eyes and inhales raggedly. His bags tumble out of his grasp to the floor. _If everything was different… what would I do then?_ He’s asked himself that question so many times in the last few hours. Taunted himself with it again and again.

“Please, Stiles- just-”

Stiles wheels round. “If I say what you want to hear, even though it's true, it doesn’t change anything. It just makes everything more difficult. You get that right? It’ll be easier for us both if I don’t.” _It’ll be easier if you’re angry with me._

Derek swallows and shuts his eyes, face all screwed up like he’s braced for a crash. “And if I came back anyway-”

“Don’t!” Stiles says urgently, stepping forward and pressing his palm to Derek’s chest. “Don’t do that! You- you said you were in love with me. If you love me then please, don’t follow me back to Beacon Hills. I don’t have any choice _but_ to go back there. You do! You have a choice.”

Derek stares at him blankly, “No, Stiles.” His voice is cold, distant. “I don’t, you’re the one making all the _fucking_ choices for us here.”

Stiles drops his hand. “Derek-”

Derek’s gaze skates over him, then away, like he can’t bear the sight of him. “I’m gonna go. It was- It was good seeing you.”

He turns on his heel, all Stiles can do is watch him leave.

 

-

 

He checks in, hands quivering and goes to sit in the departure lounge. He has three hours before his flight’s due to leave. Three hours of sitting here with nothing for company except his own tortured thoughts. He wants to curl up and cry. He feels in his heart that he’s made a terrible mistake, but his head tells him he’s done the only thing he could have done.

He finds a bathroom and stares in the mirror, skin pale in the flickering neon light. _You should never have come here,_ he thinks to himself. _You’ve ruined this, just like you ruin everything._

In the end, he does the only thing he can think to do. He takes out his phone with shaking fingers and calls his Dad.

“Hello? Stiles? Is that you? You didn’t arrive early did you son? Because I am not going to be at the airport for a _while_ yet. Deputy Roberts called in sick, so I’m stuck trying to find cover and-”

“No- I,” he takes a shuddering breath.

“ _Stiles,_ ” his dad says, “What’s wrong?”

“I fucked up,” he says, shaking, “I think I just fucked up.”

There’s a long pause. “Wait a second, son,” his dad says with a sigh, “I think this is a conversation I need to sit down for.” There’s the sound of movement and then his dad says, “Okay. Tell me all about it…” And it all comes pouring out.

He’s a mess, but his dad just lets him talk… lets him get through it until he stutters to a stop.

“Well?” Stiles asks.

His dad sighs, “Well yeah, I’d say you fucked up.”

Stiles lets out a noise that’s half snorting laugh, half choked sob. “What?”

“I said, your instincts are pretty good, you definitely fucked up.”

“But-”

“Look, do you know what I want for you son? It’s the same thing anyone wants for the people they really love. I want you to be happy and I want you to be safe. You care about Derek- yes? And from what you say he feels the same way.”

“Yeah-”

“So you pushed for him to be safe. You figure, if you can keep him safe than he’ll be okay, but you’re forgetting something kid, you’re forgetting his happiness. You really think he’s going to be happy living in São Paulo alone, without you?”

“Are you saying he’ll be happier living in Beacon Hills? Most of his family _died_ there dad. His pack was wiped out. Beacon Hills isn’t a town any more for fucks sake, it’s a mass grave.”

His dad sighs, “I’m not saying it wouldn’t be painful for him son, but he cares about you. From what you say he’s living in some tiny apartment in São Paulo. Is his little sister nearby? No. Does he have any other family? No. I’m betting he didn’t introduce you to a single work colleague or friend the whole time you were there.”

“There’s a waitress that he sort of knows. There are probably other people too, I’m sure he has them.” Stiles’ stomach sinks.

“Does he?” His dad lets the question hang in the air between them, before continuing, “From everything you’ve told me, Derek Hale has been rootless and alone for _years,_ fighting just to survive. Doesn’t seem to me like he’d be someone who makes friends easy. People with that many trust issues rarely do.”

“Yeah but-”

“He sees you’re in trouble and asks you to visit. That’s a big thing son. He cares for you and from what you told me this thing between you has been building for a while. It sounds like you're good together, you make each other happy. Now he wants to keep that happiness. He wants to keep it at the expense of his own hard won safety. Well, that’s his choice kid. Not yours.”

“I can’t-” Stiles says, swallowing round a burning lump in his throat, “I can’t protect him if he’s in Beacon Hills. I can’t protect him and you and Scott and everyone else. I just want to know that one person I care for is safe. I just want him to be safe. Is that so terrible?”

“No,” his dad says, voice a little softer, “It’s not terrible. It’s what everybody wants for the people they love. But he’s a grown man, Stiles, you can’t make decisions about his safety for him, any more than you get to tell him what makes him happy, or who to love, or where he’s going to live.”

Stiles rubs at his eyes furiously, his shoulders slump. “I’m just so- I’m so tired, dad. I’m tired of having to think like this, of having to _worry_ about everyone all the time.”

His Dad clears his throat unevenly. “I know, son. I know. It’s been a rough few years."

Stiles nods, he can’t bring himself to speak.

“If your mom was here, she’d be so proud of you and how you’ve handled yourself. _I’m_ proud of you.” Stiles closes his eyes and cradles his head in his hands, phone tucked under his chin. His dad continues, “I want you to know that, because I’m about to say something, and you’re not gonna like it, but you need to trust me. Can you do that?”

Stiles nods, “Okay.”

“Stay in São Paulo.”

There’s a long pause. Stiles blinks several times. Whatever he’d been expecting his dad to say, it wasn’t this. “What?”

“You should stay in São Paulo, with Derek.”

“I can’t- what about you and Scott? The pack?”

“We can look after ourselves.”

“That’s not- Do you know how many times I’ve had to pull your asses out of the fire? Do you?” He stands up, abruptly and inexplicably angry. “Just because I’m not a werewolf, just because I don’t carry a gun...”

“Stiles. I know that and like I said, I’m proud of you, but it’s been clear for some time, to me at least, that you’ve reached about the limit of what you can cope with. The way I see it there are two options. One, Derek comes back with you, and _maybe_ that helps you, but _maybe_ it just gives you another person to worry about. Another reason to lay in bed at night not getting a wink of sleep. That’s no good. So that leaves us with option two. You leave Beacon Hills-”

“You think I could be happy? Worrying about you and Scott and everyone back there?”

“I think you’d be safe, and as happy as it is possible for you too be, for a given value of happy. Yes.” Stiles sags back against the wall. His Dad sighs, “More than that, kid, for your own sake, you need to get away. This place has been destroying you, eating you up from the inside out. It’s not like you can’t still help the pack research stuff from São Paulo if that’s what you want. It’s the twenty-first century Stiles. You have an internet connection. Your books can be sent over there, but you need to get out of Beacon Hills.”

It’s true. It’s all true. He knows it, and yet…

“I need to know you’re okay. I need to protect _you._ ”

“You can’t,” his father says simply. “You could come back and I could get hit by a bus tomorrow, I could get shot by a perp while I’m answering a call. I could find out next week that I’ve got some kind of incurable illness.”

“Don’t-”

“That’s the truth, Stiles, that’s life! We all die! You can’t protect me. If you spend your entire life trying to ensure the safety of other people, it’ll drive you crazy.”

“So I just run away?”

“No. You choose happiness. You choose to let yourself live, and you don’t let yourself feel bad about it. You think that this is a selfish choice, but it’s not. You stay with Derek. Derek’s happy _and_ safe. _You_ are happy and safe, if you let yourself be.”

“And you?-”

His dad chuckles, “I’ll be happy you’re safe. I’ll be happy that you’re happy. Honestly, that’s all I could ever want for you, Stiles. Staying where you are is the least selfish thing you can do.”

He scrunches his eyes shut.

He doesn’t know what to say.

He doesn’t know what he feels.

He can’t make peace with the thought that he’s walking away from his dad, from Scott from the pack.

But, the idea that he could stay here, that he’d never have to live in Beacon Hills? It’s like a crushing weight has been lifted. Like he can breathe properly for the first time in months. He feels dizzy with it.  “Derek and I didn’t discuss me staying, I don’t know if he’d even want-”

“So go ask him,” his dad says gently. “I’ve got a good idea what he’ll say.”

Stiles swipes furiously at his eyes, at the tears which stubbornly refuse to fall. “I’m gonna miss you.”

“Son, you won’t have time to miss me,” his dad says fondly, “I’ll be on the phone so often it’ll be _annoying_. I’ll be coming down to visit, hell- you think I’m going to miss my chance to give _Derek Hale_ the _talk_?”

Stiles gives a choked laugh.

“Go,” his dad says, firm but kind, “Go find Derek, Stiles. Go and be happy. If you can’t make that choice for your own sake yet, then make it for me, and in time, try to make it for yourself.” Stiles' expression crumples, he can't speak. "Will you do that for me, son?"  
  
Stiles swallows hard and forces the words out. “O-Okay, Dad, okay. I’ll try.”

“Good, and son?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Dad.”

 

-

 

He gets a cab back to the apartment. He climbs the stairs slowly. He needs to be here, he _wants_ to be here, but he's scared of what Derek will say. He knocks at the door, and there's no reply. Wherever Derek went when he left the airport, he doesn't seemed to have returned here. Stiles stands for a while, paralyzed with indecision. _What if he's left? What if something has happened to him?_

He gets out his phone, leans back against the door and tries to call Derek, but it goes straight to voicemail.

He has no way of contacting him, and no idea where he is or when he'll return. Stiles slides down the door anxious and disappointed. At the moment he has no choice but to wait here.

It's an hour later when he hears the door to the building thump shut, and the sound of someone walking down the narrow corridor. He drops his phone to the floor and cranes his neck to see who it is, and sighs with relief.

It's Derek, he’s carrying a bag under one arm and trying to fish something out of his pocket with his free hand. Stiles knows the moment Derek realizes he’s here, because he stills, nostrils flaring and then looks up sharply.

“Stiles.”

Stiles scrambles to his feet, “Hey! Hey, Derek.”

“What are you doing here?” Derek's face is carefully blank. Devoid of all emotion.

Stiles wrings his hands anxiously, shifting from foot to foot. “I-uh-” He has no idea how to begin.

Derek starts to climb the stairs. “Was your flight cancelled?”

“No.”

Derek pauses, his gaze flickers imperceptibly. “What then?”

“I wanted to speak to you, I wanted to apologize.”

Derek's standing directly in front of him now. “Apologize for what?”

Stiles runs his hands through his hair, “Could we go into the apartment and sit down for this?”

“No." Derek says slowly, "I think we can do it out here.” 

“Fine." Stiles nods, "Okay. Sure. Okay. Look. I wanted to say sorry, because you were right. I wasn't giving you a choice. I was making decisions for both of us, because I was scared. It feels like I’m scared all the time at the moment and I guess I’ve been dealing with that by trying to control everything. But that’s wrong of me, I don’t get to tell you whether you can come back to Beacon Hills.”

Derek watches him, expressionless, “So-”

“So, what I'm saying is- decisions about our future should be made by us. Together. If you still want to be an us. You don't have to want that, but if you do, then I do too so… there’s that.” He swallows hard. Derek’s face is still blank.

“I feel I should warn you though, if you choose us, you're getting the raw end of the deal here. I think," his voice cracks, "I think I'm a bit broken, and it's- it's probably going to take a lot of work to fix me, and I understand if you don't want to be part of that. I mean, I'm a mess Derek, look at me.” He spreads his hands helplessly, tears pricking the corner of his eyes.

“Stiles-”

“I was so fucking stressed in Beacon Hills. So caught up in trying to protect people, in just trying to survive. It was all I could do to keep going and I guess uh- I couldn’t see or feel anything positive any more. I got so _lost._ Then I came here and I felt like _me,_ for the first time in forever. I was out of Beacon Hills and I was with _you,_ and… and for a while all I could focus on was how much better _I_ felt, and I didn't, I _couldn't_ let myself think about it ending. When you said you wanted to come back with me I freaked, and I was selfish and stupid, but with the best of intentions. I really _didn't_ mean to hurt you Derek. I just,” tears finally start to fall. “I couldn't handle the idea of you getting hurt I guess. Which- I mean- In the end I'm just a dumb, broken kid who's a bit fucked up and you- you deserve better...” He covers his face with his palms, shoulders shaking as he cries, big, racking sobs that won’t stop coming.

Slowly Derek tugs him into a hug, strong arms circle him tightly. “Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay. We’ll work it out. We’ll work it out together.” He runs his fingers through Stiles’ hair, petting him gently. Stiles can't stop crying, can't stop shaking, it's like a dam has broken and all the fear and pain he's been bottling up just comes flooding out, and Derek just accepts it. For the longest time they just stand there, holding each other. When the tears don't seem to show any sign of stopping Derek whispers in his ear, “Hey, come on, Stiles. You don’t get to waltz in here and claim the monopoly on being broken and fucked up. That’s _my_ thing, you can’t take it from me.”

Stiles makes a garbled noise, laughter _almost_ lost among the tears. “Fuck. I love you. I _really_ love you.”

Derek smiles soft and fond. “I know Stiles, I know you do.”

Stiles sags further into him, buries his face in Derek's shoulder and holds on tight. They're both a little broken, they're both a little fucked up, but they love each other and whatever comes along now, they get to face it together.

 

-

 

Epilogue

_A few months later. Christmas._

 

When John Stilinski steps through the arrivals gate at Guarulhos Airport he doesn’t have a chance to look for his son. Stiles barrels into him at high speed nearly knocking him over. Lean arms wrap around him and squeeze him so tight he swears he feels his ribs creak.

It feels good, and he can’t help the smile that spreads slowly over his face. He hugs back, good and strong.

“I missed you,” Stiles says, words muffled against his shoulder. “I missed you so much.”

John sighs and pats him on the back, “I miss you, too, son. Now, step back and let’s get a look at you.”

Reluctantly Stiles steps back, and John’s smile stretches wider still. Stiles looks good, a little tan, bright eyes, a ready smile. Healthy and whole. John’s heart feels light.

“Not bad son,” he grins. “Hairs getting a little longer than I’m used to, but you look good. Where’s Derek?”

Stiles grins. “Back there,” he jerks his thumb behind him. “I kind of left him standing there when I saw you arrive.”

John glances, following the direction Stiles indicated. He spots Derek immediately, lurking awkwardly by a vending machine. He doesn’t look quite like John’s memory of him, a dour young man with a permanent frown, who seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. Now he’s standing there, shifting restlessly from foot to foot, a nervous smile twitching in the corner of his mouth. He looks a lot younger than John recalls.

They walk over to him together, Stiles chatting animatedly.

“Sir,” Derek says when they reach him. He sounds oddly formal as he reaches out to shake the Sheriff’s hand.

“For christsakes, Derek, call me John.” John says. He ignores the hand and pulls him in for a startled hug.

“I can’t believe you’re finally here and we’re all together!” Stiles crows, launching himself on top of the both until they’re engaged in an awkward three person hug. Well, no, it’s sort of a huddle. A huggle. John sighs to himself. It’s been too long since he’s seen Stiles, but he’s internalized him well enough.

“So, as you know the apartment’s not that big. You’re going to have our room and we’ll sleep in the living room. We bought a sofa bed just for the occasion. It’ll be a bit cramped, but we’ll make it work. I mean, if you don’t like it there are hotels, but I haven’t seen you in ages, and it’s Christmas and-”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, son.”

“Der’s going to cook Christmas dinner. It’s gonna be turkey, because that’s traditional here- but Ana taught him how to make bacalhau too, it’s gonna be awesome. Derek’s cooking is amazing, Dad.”

I’m looking forward to it.” He glances across at Derek, who rolls his eyes, but the tips of his ears are pink.

 

-

 

Stiles leads him up a narrow staircase, to a freshly painted door. Derek stands behind him, carrying his suitcase.

“So- uh, it’s quite small,” Stiles shifts nervously. “We like it though, I mean- it’s not, but you’ll-”

“Stiles,” he says, placing his hand on his son’s arm. “I’m sure I’ll love it.”

Stiles grins nervously, “I hope so.” He fumbles the key in the lock, but eventually the door swings open. “Welcome to casa Haleinski,” he says, arms outstretched. Derek snorts. “He says it sounds lame,” Stiles says in a stage whisper, “but he loves it really.”

John glances at Derek, whose ears are burning red now, and bites his lip against a smile.

The apartment _is_ small, but it’s homey. The kitchen is tiny but functional, all the essentials and even some non-essentials too judging by the enormous espresso machine that takes up a good quarter of the available counter space. In the living room, there’s a brand new couch, which must be the sofa bed Stiles was talking about. There’s a coffee table in the middle and a worn armchair that looks like they found it at a second hand furniture store. A tiny desk is tucked into one corner, a laptop sits on it surrounded by clutter. There’s an old bookcase, filled with battered books and grimoires that John sent on months ago. There are glass doors that lead to a balcony filled with a profusion of plants. The main thing he notices though, are the walls. There’s a couple of old movie posters hanging up, and photographs, so many framed photographs filling the walls.

He steps up to take a closer look. There’s a picture of Stiles with Scott and Lydia, and another of Derek sitting next to Cora, arms slung casually around each other. Above that there’s an old slightly singed looking one full of dark haired people that John recognizes as Derek’s family. Along from that there’s one of him and Claudia with a young Stiles, smiling up at the camera happily. Mainly though, it’s pictures of Stiles and Derek, eating out, at a bar with friends, on the beach, snuggled together on the couch, making stupid faces, laughing. Looking happy. Ridiculously, stupidly, happy.

A smile spreads across his face. He looks back to find them both standing there, hand in hand, watching him nervously, waiting for his verdict.

“Well?” Stiles asks, fidgeting. “What do you think?”

“It’s good guys. I like it, it’s real good.”

Stiles beams.

 

-

 

Later that evening he and Derek are sitting on the couch after dinner, while Stiles fiddles around with the ridiculous espresso machine. John realizes he’s rarely felt this content.

Next to him, Derek sits staring at his hands, posture tense.

“There something you want to say, Derek?”

Derek looks up at him, surprised.

“I’m a Sheriff, son, I’m good at reading people. It’s what I do.”

Derek’s shoulders relax a little. “I just- I wanted to say thanks I guess.”

“Thanks?”

“For talking to Stiles. For suggesting this. I haven’t had much-” he pauses and frowns. “I never thought I’d get to have this with anyone,” he says slowly. “And now I do, and it’s because of you.”

John snorts. “No it’s not. I mean, I get what you’re saying, but all I did was give Stiles permission. Permission to admit he wasn’t coping and permission to take the steps he needed to deal with it. This-” he gestures expansively, “this is all you and Stiles. I didn’t do this. You did. I’m proud of you Derek, it takes a lot of courage to put your heart out there again, when you know what it’s like to lose the people you care for. Don’t give me the credit son, this is all on you. Both of you.”

Derek swallows and blinks rapidly. “Okay,” he says roughly, “Okay. Thanks.”

“Coming through,” Stiles calls, as he picks his way across the room carefully, carrying three mugs of coffee. That’s a black coffee you Der, white, no sugar for you Dad.”

“But-” John protests.

“No sugar,” Stiles repeats.

“Fine,” John grumbles, “If there’s sugar in yours though I’m going to file a complaint with the management.”

“I AM the management,” Stiles says imperiously, “Now scooch along a bit, I want to sit in the middle.”

 

 

_I live alone_

_I live a lonely life without you  
_

_And I may be troubled  
_

_But_ _I'm gracious in defeat_

**In Dreams, Ben Howard**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title for this fic came from In Dreams by Ben Howard. as did the final quote. I listened to it on a loop and it kind of became the theme for parts of the fic. If you are so inclined you can listen to it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nqeYrWaynyc)
> 
> The quote at the beginning is from I Found by Amber Run, which you can listen to [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yj6V_a1-EUA). It's one of my ultimate Sterek songs, and it felt fitting here.
> 
> In case you are interested, my headcanon for this is that Stiles does go to college eventually. He just needed to take a bit of time to himself to rest and recover, and when he decides where he wants to go, Derek goes with him. :D  
>    
> I am on [tumblr](http://yodas-yo-yo.tumblr.com/) flailing into the void because of Dylan O'Brien's hands and Tyler Hoechlin's chest hair. Come flail with/at me. :D


End file.
